I do not own Bates Motel.
But, in some ways, I do own a Dylan. And I love him so much.
Yeah, Whatever
Mom?
Norma?
It wasn't, but just for a second, in the headlights of the truck, he could swear Norma, or even a younger version of her, was slowly climbing the steps to the gothic house of death on the hill.
No no no no-
He fairly leapt out of the truck to stop her.
"May I help you?!"
She turned and Dylan saw that she was young.
His age young.
Norman's age young.
And pretty.
Blonde pretty.
Norma pretty.
"Hi."
And she had been crying.
Vulnerable and pretty.
Norma all over.
"Hi. Who are you?"
She was even dressed in a classic way. Like Norma would have appreciated.
"I'm Madeline. I'm a friend of Norman's."
Oh god, no, you're not.
"I'm just going to see Norman."
Oh god, no, you're not.
He didn't even care Norman had been pretending he never existed.
He just cared that this woman soon might never have existed.
Like her husband.
Oh god, Norman what did you do?
". . . safe place . . ."
Not here.
". . . control his environment . . ."
And you are definitely not part of controlling his environment.
Shudder.
And then he got her 'missing' husband's name and sent her away as fast as he could.
Probably scaring her a little in the process.
But at sending her away unhurt.
Unharmed.
Un, well, dead.
And then . . .
Alright, dammit, we've got to sort this shit out, Norman.
. . . Dylan Massett went up the steps himself.
And went home.
He was wiped out on the floor and his head was beyond throbbing.
Shit, my head, Norman, what the hell?
He felt like he had been so close to getting through to him, getting him to take his meds.
Just once.
Get him on the path to getting a little clearer.
He had tried to talk to Norman about Sam Loomis disappearing, tried to get him to tell the truth.
". . . don't know what happened to him."
Bullshit. You killed him, didn't you?
Norman had again insisted he was telling the truth, insisted he was fine.
And insisted . . .
". . . me be."
. . . that Dylan leave.
No. That's not happening.
Norman had been agitated, really agitated.
Crying and gasping for breath like he was about to collapse or freak out or something.
But still in control, Dylan thought. Barely.
Maybe.
He had switched seats, coming closer.
Sitting next to his baby brother. Speaking calm and quiet . . .
"I just really want to help you get better. You need to trust me, please."
. . . and so very sincere and earnest.
Trying to make that connection of care.
"You're my brother and I love you."
Putting himself out there for him, being really, really real.
Bringing out the few pills he had convinced the pharmacist to sell him.
"Please just take one in front of me so I know you're taking it."
He figured he'd convince him to take the meds.
And then get him somewhere safe before he hurt anybody else.
Talking to him, quite and calm.
And yes, urgent.
Trying to get through to him before he snapped and shattered into a million pieces.
Norman, like though his brother had asked him to imibe deadly poison, asked him to die.
Every movement severely efforted, like his limbs were weighted with lodestones.
But slowly, like monkey evolution slow, taking a pill.
Standing, trudging to the sink to fill the cup with water.
Okay, okay, he's taking the first step, okay.
But then-
"Please stay out of this, Mother."
"I just want to talk to him, Norman."
-it had happened again.
He had turned.
And Norman, not really being a macho kinda guy to begin with, had shifted.
Changed.
His voice. His movements.
Oh Jesus.
"Dylan, I know you mean well."
Replaced by . . .
. . . Mom?
"Because you have always meant well."
It chilled Dylan.
"And you may not believe me, but I am . . ."
Froze him more than anything else he had experienced with Norman.
So far.
". . . so proud of you."
Weird as it seemed, terrified as he was, he could almost imagine Norma was standing there.
Finally, for no reason at all, no motive behind it, telling him things he'd always wished to hear.
"I love you."
Truthful. Sincere.
Real.
"But unfortunately, I can only ever be a real mother to just one person."
And stupidly, even though it was Norman being Norma and not really Norma, that statement sliced him to the core just as if she'd actually said it herself.
Because she must have showed that feeling, that decision throughout his childhood and life even more so than he had thought.
Otherwise, Norman's perception of the her that he was showing now, wouldn't have thought to say it.
"And so, even though I love you so very, very much, and this pains me . . ."
Norma, I mean, Norman-
". . . you are getting in the way."
And then the little bastard bashed him in the side of the head with the water glass.
Oh f-
The pain was intense and blinding.
But he could see, in and out, Norman grabbing a knife-
Oh f-
-stabbing downward-
No-
-a second before stopping like he'd hit an invisible wall-
Is it the Force?
-then Norman struggling with himself, falling back over the table, climbing up on it, flailing weirdly about-
-the hell-.
There was blood on Dylan's hand, his head cut open bad.
Vision waving in and out.
But he could still see Norman finally scrambling off the table, staggering to the phone.
And he could definitely still hear him.
". . . Norman Bates. I killed Sam Loomis."
The hell?!
Yep, I didn't see it coming either!